


The Bucket List

by Northern_spies



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Aziraphale's animal form, Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Dancing, Ducks, First Dance, Friendship, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Love, M/M, Other, Romance, Slow Dancing, everyone gets a tattoo and a dance number!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-09 18:33:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19892413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northern_spies/pseuds/Northern_spies
Summary: Between the bus ride and the body swap, Aziraphale and Crowley spend an evening bickering, drinking, pining, tattooing, and dancing.





	The Bucket List

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I've written in over a year but what can I say except this show absolutely captured my heart? Note this is un-betaed (and the pacing is kind of weird) as I don't even know who else might be into this series/novel. Mostly series-compliant, not sure about the novel as I'm only halfway through it. Thanks for reading!

Crowley was pleasantly surprised to find Aziraphale sliding in to sit snugly against him on the Tadfield-to-Oxford bus to London. He glanced over his shoulder to ensure the bus was empty, then half-turned back to look at his companion.

Aziraphale was looking pointedly toward the ceiling, hands neatly in his lap. The rest of him seemed to have finally caught up to his worn waistcoat, all haggard and thin around the edges. Crowley wanted to invite him to lay his exhausted head on his shoulder.

He settled for clearing his throat. 

Aziraphale jumped. “Oh, ah. Sorry. Just a little lost in thought.” 

“Yeah, lots to think about,” Crowley cautiously agreed. “Anything in particular?”

Aziraphale lowered his gaze to his lap. “Actually, yes.”

“Long bus ride, plenty of time.” _Unburden yourself_ , he thought, _so I can pick it up, you can rest, and I won’t have to lose you again_.

“Yes, well, time is just the problem, isn’t?” Aziraphale’s eyebrows drew together.

“It’ll take years before they try again-”

“No, not the Earth. You.”

Crowley felt the last word sweep through him. “Me?” 

Aziraphale turned and looked at him. “Yes you. And me.”

Perhaps he had misread Aziraphale’s exhaustion. His heart danced a dizzy waltz in his chest. “And you...us?” 

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, that’s it. Us.”

“Us.” Crowley turned the word over as he said it, diffusing it into the air around them. “Us.” 

“They’ll want satisfaction, you know.”

The waltz stopped mid-beat. “Sorry, they?”

“Upstairs and down. We ruined their plans. My side isn’t likely to let that go. And I know, demonic retribution, not quite as famous as divine retribution. But it’s all the same once they get going, and I hate to think what will happen to-”

“So don’t.” Aziraphale clearly couldn’t take another moment of stress. “Don’t think what will happen, angel.” Crowley could do the thinking, after he’d gotten Aziraphale distracted by a book or maybe even some sleep. Anything to change that ragged look he was so unsuitably wearing. That was Crowley’s look. Aziraphale was supposed to look sprightly and soft.

“We can’t very well do anything to prevent it if we don’t.” 

“But the prophecy?”

“Prophecy only, not a clear instruction, my dear. Choose your faces wisely… could be our expressions, maybe. With the reference to fire, perhaps a call for an icy countenance? Or what else has faces? Dice, clocks… now I’m back at time again,” he muttered.

\--

When the bus reached Crowley’s flat, Aziraphale stepped aside in the aisle to allow him to pass.

Crowley shook his head. “Go on angel, up you go.” 

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and held out his hand. “No, after you.”

Crowley battled a dark thought- did Aziraphale want Crowley to have his back to him so he could run? No, couldn’t be, where else would he go? He couldn’t risk letting him out of his sight again.

Crowley conceded to leading the way, glancing over his shoulder periodically to check Aziraphale was still following. He stepped through the door and stretched a welcoming hand out. “I know it’s not like the bookshop, bit less claustrophobic, but I figure, you know, something about ports and storms.”

Aziraphale stepped just far enough over the threshold for Crowley reach behind him and close the door. “Very, ah, sterile. Clean, that is. I suppose it does suit you.” 

“We can’t all be southern pansies.”

Aziraphale smiled wryly back at him. “I know, such a pity.” 

“Well, make yourself at home. Sofa’s over there, and I’ll see what sort of wine I’ve got in.”

Aziraphale hovered in the doorway. “I don’t want to impose.”

“Do I ever impose when I stop by the bookshop?” 

“Not as such, no,” Aziraphale relented. “Suppose I would do better thinking if I relax just a tick.” He perched on the edge of the sofa. “Oh yes, that’s better.

Crowley selected a bottle from the wine rack and got to work pouring. He wondered if he might still have a tablet of zolpidem around somewhere. Now that had been some brilliant demonic work, a drug that makes you do strange, inexplicable things in your sleep, without any conscious knowledge you were acting at all. Still, drugging his best friend- that felt wrong in a way that was neither angelic nor demonic. Hopefully the exhausted angel would rest without chemically-delivered demonic intervention.

He turned back to the sofa and Aziraphale’s rigid form. “It’s not as uncomfortable as it looks, honest, just sink back into it a little,” he suggested.

“Comfort isn’t my concern, focus is, and that’s difficult tonight,” Aziraphale admitted.

Crowley handed him a glass and settled in at the opposite end of the sofa. “Well, they say the best thoughts come to you when you’re trying not to think, right? In the shower, or when driving, or in a dream while sleeping, for instance.” 

“Hmmm,” Aziraphale said, non-committedly. 

“Alright.” Crowley searched his mind for anything to take the angel off his preoccupation with the prophecy. “Or we could try to get properly motivated. Come up with some of the reasons why we’re so invested in seeing this life continue.” Heav- hel- _Earth_ , he was getting sentimental in his sixty-first century.

Aziraphale sighed. “If we’re going that route then it’s time again, mostly. Six thousand years, and there’s still so much you never get to, you know?” He raised the wine to his lips and took a sip. “Like this wine, an Argentinian Malbec, yes?”

Crowley shrugged. “Haven’t had time to restock, bit busy, end of the world.”

“No, it’s nice actually. But it’s part of what I mean. I haven’t been to Argentina since before they started growing grapes there.”

“Me either,” Crowley admitted. He seized the chance for a good distraction and stood. “Let’s go now. I’ll just find the keys to the Bentley and-”Aziraphale gave him a meaningful look. “Right. Bentley’s gone.” A dull ache echoed through his chest. 

Aziraphale withdrew the scrap of prophecy from his pocket. “And we too shall be gone if we can’t think of what this means! Choose your faces wisely…”

“Argentina.” Crowley sank back down onto the sofa. “Argentina, and Lake Victoria. Six thousand years, and I never made it back to Lake Victoria. Or Sumatra, or Glacier Bay. One-offs.”

“I’ve only seen a live production of _Cymbeline_ once,” Aziraphale lamented. “Not to even mention the things I never got around to at all. You know I’ve collected thirty-seven souffle recipes but never made one?” 

Crowley removed his glasses and examined his reflection in the lenses. “How did we manage to spend six thousand years on this rock and fail to try everything we could?” He set his glasses on the coffee table. “I never tried to learn the guitar.”

Aziraphale shot him a pitying glance. “I never visited the National Library of Russia,” he said bitterly.

“I’m scandalized,” Crowely said, and meant it sincerely. “And I never tried leggings, even though I helped inspire Spandex.” He paused to top up Aziraphale’s glass. “Worst of all, I never visited one of those parks where they don’t have artificial lights, so you can see the stars properly, for the first time since the damned- er, blessed-, ah sodding Industrial Revolution.” Aziraphale gave him a sympathetic smile. “I really wanted to see them, one more time.” 

Aziraphale held the prophecy out in front of him, then brought it in closer with one eye closed. “Crowley, this isn’t helping, it’s just making things worse.” He finished his glass of wine, set it down, and turned the prophecy upside down. “You wouldn’t happen to have a magnifying glass, would you?” 

“No, got an idea- just a moment.” Crowley jogged toward his bedroom and threw open the wardrobe. He rummaged around for a moment and emerged with a stiff, black top hat. He sprinted back to the sofa and held it out to Aziraphale.

“Faces, not head coverings, my dear,” said Aziraphale. “I don’t know why you aren’t taking this seriously.”

“No, I am. Just hold this”

  
“Crowley-”

“Angel.” Crowley took a notepad and pencil off the coffee table and began to write. He tore a strip off the paper, tossed it into the hat, and began scribbling again. “If you don’t hurry up and ask what I’m doing, I’m not going to let you have any of the fun.”

Aziraphale placed his hands on his knees and leaned forward. “Fine. What are you doing?”

“Bucket list. Or, bucket hat, really. Though I suppose that’s an entirely different thing. Also a proud product of Hell. So let’s stick with list.”

“Bucket list?”

Crowley nodded. “Bucket list. Human thing. When they’re terminally ill, or when they’ve reached midlife, or even when they’re just two decades old and already getting burned out, they make a list. Things they want to try, goals or just, you know, possibilities.” 

“And the point is?” 

“Gives you something to live for. Reinvigorates the old spark, helps the ideas flow.”

“We don’t have time for that.” 

Crowley paused his writing and looked up at Aziraphale. “What if we do? What if we just take a few hours?” He pushed the notepad across the coffee table. “Write down all the things we never got around to, on these little slips, just the ones we can do here in the flat, like your thing about the souffle or my leggings. Put them in the hat. Take turns drawing them. See if we can’t live a few more minutes, see if we get inspired to figure out how to make it even longer.” He paused and wondered if he should add “together,” to his remarks.

Aziraphale poured himself another glass of wine. “Alright, but only since you don’t have a magnifying glass and I’ve got no other ideas.”

\--

A few hours later Crowley’s flat hosted a trail of floury footsteps from the kitchen to the lounge, a pair of discarded leggings on the wine rack, a half-finished watercolor painting of St. James’s Park, and two intoxicated supernatural beings drinking shots from an ice luge perched on the coffee table. 

“So that’s my souffle, your leggings, my painting, and your ice luge. Mine next, I think?” Aziraphale asked.

“Supposed to be random.” Crowley reached into the hat. “I’ve half a mind to make sure it’s one of mine again, just to, just to,” he paused and drew out a slip of paper. “Just to prove the point.” 

“Oh, but my last one is a GOOD one!” 

“Yes, but good by your standards, so probably awful. Donate a kidney or rescue a lost lamb or something like that.”

Aziraphale smirked. “You haven’t guessed it.”

“Ok, ok, let’s see then.” Crowley unfolded the slip of paper and slowly read it aloud. “Get a tattoo? I don’t remember putting that in there.” 

“That’s because I put it in there!” Aziraphale said, erupting with drunken giggles. 

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Really, Aziraphale. All MY suggestions were serious. What’ll you do if I actually hold you to this?”

“Why, I’ll be quite pleased!”

“You’re an _angel_ , remember?”

“I know, I know, all that Old Testament stuff about not marking the skin and whatnot. But,” he shrugged, “I eat shellfish. And.” Aziraphale glanced around the room conspiratorially and lowered his voice. “I’m mixing fabrics. Right now.”

“Oh, you rebel,” said Crowley, only half sarcastically.

Aziraphale nodded. “Just a bit. But, I like art. I think it must be nice, having a little painting you carry around on your skin.” He reached out toward Crowley and touched the tattoo above his ear. 

Aziraphale’s fingers were just millimeters from stroking his hair. Crowley fought the urge to fold down into the touch.

He jerked away. “Right then, one tattoo.” He stood and opened an end table drawer. “Should be in here, I think.”

“What should be where?”

“Tattoo machine. Seattle, early 1990s. Part of my cover when I was working to get corporate coffee off the ground.” Crowley smiled with self-satisfaction. “One one of the more successful demonic commercial ventures.” 

Aziraphale chuckled nervously. “I assumed we’d just miracle it on?”

“Come on angel, I’m very good.” 

“Does it hurt?”

  
“Humans, yeah. But us?” Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Just tickles a little. Heals almost instantly” Crowley examined the machine. “Everything’s in working order with this thing. So, where should we do this?”

“Well, I suppose it ought to be concealable, should we, you know, survive whatever is to be.”

“Not too hard, given how you dress.”

Aziraphale shrugged off his jacket. “I think the inner forearm, then, higher than the wrist.” He rolled up his right sleeve and held his arm out to Crowley. “Go on, then.”

“You haven’t told me what sort of tattoo you want. And try to keep it decent, I’m not going to waste my skill on some basic wings or, I don’t know, a literary quote.”

“No, nothing like that.” Aziraphale cocked his head to the side. Slowly, a smile spread across his face. “Oh, a snake would do nicely, I should think.”

Crowley’s breath halted. Aziraphale didn’t, he _couldn’t_ \- no, it had to be a joke. “Quit having me on, what do you really want?” 

“A serpent. Not exactly like yours, something a bit simpler but suggestive of the general idea.”

“Very funny, angel, I give in. I’ll do your _Hamlet_ passage or whatever else.”

Aziraphale sat up straighter. “No, you will not, because I want a snake.” He held his arm out again.

Crowley crouched down next to him. “Maybe you should sober up first. These are permanent, well, permanent for a particular corporeal form, at least.” 

“I sobered up while you were looking for the machine.”

How could he explain this patiently, without giving everything he felt away? “Remember, Serpent of Eden. A demonic symbol. On your body. A bit too _fast_ , isn’t it? Think it through.” 

Aziraphale shook his head. “A symbol of knowledge. And of you.” Crowley watched a pink flush creep over his ears. “And knowledge, and you, well- those are the two things I- well, I hold most dear.” Aziraphale flashed Crowley that look, the one equal parts smug and pleading, that one that made his heart stop every time. “And there’s nothing else I want permanently, Crowley darling, so I’ll have the snake now, please.”

\--

It was a short project, and Crowley quickly found himself staring at his tattoo machine while Aziraphale admired his work. “Well, that does look nice, doesn’t it?” he said as he moved his arm to catch the light. “Shall I do yours next?”

“M-mine?” Crowley asked. “I’ve already got a tattoo.”

“I know, but we’ve done everything else together tonight. I put those ridiculous trousers on when you wanted to, and drank that awful, freezing cold vodka.” 

“You’ve never tattooed anyone before.”

“No, but I doodle in the margins sometimes."

Crowley snorted. "No you don't." 

"Well, not the margins, but on a scrap of paper _near_ the margins. I like to think I’ve picked up a few skills over the centuries. Can’t be too hard. Now, where and what image?”

Crowley groaned. It seemed his distraction plan had worked a little too well. And his own concentration was shot now, given his mind could not stop catching on Aziraphale, with a snake tattoo, by request, in his flat. A snake he evidently thought meant Crowley plus knowledge, not temptation plus shame. He was just considering what it might be like to take snake form now and wind himself into Aziraphale’s lap when he was struck with a realization.

“Your animal form, you would have been issued one at Creation. Everyone was. And I’ve never seen it. Six thousand years, and I’ve never seen it!” 

“And you shall continue not to, now, let’s get back on topic, which tattoo?”

Crowley smiled slyly. “Well, that seems obvious now, doesn’t it?”

“Come again?”

“Your animal form.”

  
Aziraphale shook his head. “You can’t have a tattoo of something you haven’t seen.” 

“Can so. Everything together tonight, right? Well, you’ve got a snake, so that means I’ve got to get one of you.” 

“Crowley, it isn’t dignified!”

“Come on, you’ve seen mine. Possibly our last night on Earth, just saved the world, and you won’t even let me see whatever dove or rabbit or sheep you-”

There was a soft, fluttering sound, and Aziraphale vanished. In his place sat a large, white duck.

“Oh. Ohhhh. This is too good. The angel’s a duck!” Crowley wheezed with laughter. “All those times we’ve been down to St. James’s Park, those your mates? Can I get you some bread?” 

“Very funny, you wily serpent,” Aziraphale-the-duck responded, with just the barest hint of a quack.

Crowley wiped the mirthful tears from his eyes as Aziraphale transitioned back to his almost-human form. “Oh, thanks angel, I needed that!”

“Hmph, well, at least I won’t be the one with a duck on my forearm.” Aziraphale gestured to the tattoo machine. “Ready, my dear?”

Crowley grinned and rolled up his left sleeve. “Yes, _ducky_ , I’m ready.”

\--

Crowley had to admit that for a first timer Aziraphale did quite a nice job, though that might have been Crowley’s subtle coaxing of the tattoo machine to do his bidding. He admired the outline of the duck, dark against the pale skin of his inner left forearm. 

“One last slip left,” Aziraphale lamented. “Then it’s back to facing reality.” He reached a shaky hand into the hat.

Crowley knew what was left and felt his breath hitch. He could miracle it into something else, but...

“Dance with my best friend,” Aziraphale read aloud. He held the paper with two fingers and rose from the sofa. “Goodness, it’s been a long time since the gavotte. And I’m afraid I don’t know any others.”

Was he making excuses? “It’s ok, it’s ok,” Crowley stood, hoping he might stop Aziraphale from leaving, play if off as a joke. “You don’t have to, we don’t have to-”

Aziraphale tucked the slip of paper into his pocket. “Crowley.”

“Let’s go back to souffle baking. Or I could open another bottle of wine?”

Aziraphale held up a hand, palm toward Crowley. “Hush.” He smiled softly. “Together, remember?”

Crowley met his eyes. “Together,” he whispered.”

Music?”

Crowley’s knees suddenly felt unable to bear his body weight. “Er, yes.” He snapped, and his sound system selected a tune. Whatever it was, he couldn’t hear it above the pounding of his heart. 

Aziraphale stepped toward him. “As I was saying, it’s been some time, so you’ll have to lead.”

Crowley thought he might be sick with nerves. Aziraphale was here, in his flat, sleeves still rolled up, right palm upturned, tiny image of a snake so invitingly visible. And he wanted to dance. 

He took Aziraphale’s right hand in his left, pressed their forearms together, and snaked his right arm around the angel’s waist. His mind was full of questions- chiefly, whether it would be possible to spontaneously combust, whether he could live in this moment forever, and whether Aziraphale’s hands were always this soft and warm. He felt Aziraphale’s left hand come to rest on his right shoulder. Last chance to pull back, to call it off. 

To his own surprise, he leaned in. Aziraphale matched the motion, and laid his head against Crowley’s chest. They began to sway. Crowley closed his eyes and tucked his chin down into Aziraphale's hair.

He felt enveloped without being restrained, startled and soothed all at once. His breath came to him through the fluffy peaks atop his angel's head, all scented like dusty pages and warm cocoa. He lost all sense of where he ended and Aziraphale began. 

As the final strains of the song settled, he blinked his eyes open, and stared up into his own face. 

Aziraphale gazed down at him through his own golden eyes. “My dear, what an elegant solution.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading- if you feel compelled to comment, I'd love to know your idea for what song is playing when they dance at the end if you're willing to share. 
> 
> This was inspired by "Nothing Matters When We're Dancing," by the Magnetic Fields (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6_KXCupJDBA)- but I've left it open to interpretation and I'm quite curious what others might come up with, for my own, selfish playlist-making purposes <3


End file.
